Drowning
by Em Meredith
Summary: Post-finale fic. Take some regret, some bitterness, and add water.


TITLE: Drowning  
  
AUTHOR: Em Meredith (emily@healthyinterest.net)  
  
SUMMARY: Post-finale fic. Take some regret, some bitterness, and add water.   
  
SPOILERS: This takes place right after The Telling.  
  
RATING: R for mild sexual content -- I'm way too Southern to be very graphic.  
  
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to JJ Abrams, ABC, and Touchstone, not me.   
  
DISTRIBUTION: Cover Me. It also lives at my site (emilymeredith.tripod.com).  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Many thanks to everyone who held my hand so I could publish this. Special thanks to Philateley, Christine, austin, kate, and Sprout. Macha? Without you I'd be in the tall grass -- I'd be in the weeds.  
  
Drowning  
  
by Em Meredith  
  
Vaughn stands in front of the bathroom door, clutching a pile of clothing to his chest. He'd gone downstairs to get it from the field agent, who'd also brought passports and aliases -- fictionalized lives for two people who didn't exist anymore. Vaughn had planned to put the clothes in the bathroom while Sydney showered, but that no longer seemed to be an option. The cracked doorway reveals nothing but darkness inside the bathroom; Vaughn figures she's chosen to rely on the light from the hall rather than the harsh overheads. Instead of the rush of the shower, he only hears the water lapping against the sides of the tub.  
  
He closes his eyes, recalling other times she'd come home after a mission and escaped into the bathroom. He remembers nights when tendrils of steam would venture out of the bathroom -- those were times he left her alone to brood in scalding water. He remembers soft candles and glasses of wine -- sometimes they would talk, sometimes he would just sit and watch her. His favorites, though, were the baths they'd take together. They'd laugh at the sounds of wet skin sliding on the tile and bubbles would be flying everywhere. All the missions and the stress and the dangers of their jobs would seem so far away.  
  
He opens his eyes and slowly pushes the door open. "I brought you some clean clothes." She doesn't answer, so he edges in and sets them on the counter. As he turns to leave he risks a glance at her, and then finds himself frozen in place.  
  
She's staring at the wall, and he's never seen her face so blank. He'd almost expected her to be crying, or to still have that anguished look on her face, but instead there's no emotion at all. It shocks him-- almost as much as her reappearance has. For someone so adept at lying when her job required it, she's never hidden from him. Her face has always been open and honest, and this utter lack of expression on her face is something he never expected to see.  
  
"Sydney?" he calls softly. She doesn't respond and he's starting to wonder if maybe they should have brought in a psychologist immediately, rather than waiting. He's certainly not trained to handle any sort of crisis.   
  
But old habits die hard, and he slips back into the role he had before-- the man who was supposed to take care of her. He tries not to think of how he didn't, how he failed her. He certainly doesn't think about the woman he's supposed to take care of now-- the one he'd left in California when the frantic phone call came.  
  
He kneels on the floor next to the tub. The light from the hallway falls across her face and it worries him that she doesn't react to his presence at all. In the dim light, he can see that she's used the shampoo to create makeshift bubbles in the tub, and they cover the water with a fine layer of foam. But he's seen her body like this too many times and he can't help but imagine every line, every curve that hides under the water.  
  
He's not thinking and he reaches out to touch her face. His hand cups the side of her face and he swears she leans into it for a moment before she jerks away. Her sudden movement sets off rippling waves that splash against the sides of the tub, and she moves closer to the far edge of the tub, glistening knees sticking awkwardly out of the water.   
  
Her eyes meet his when he pulls his hand back and he doesn't know if he should be relieved to see the fire back in them or worried that all of her hurt and anger is directed at him.  
  
"Don't," she tells him, her voice low and threatening.   
  
Now she's come back into herself, her eyes are filled with anger and confusion and betrayal. The pain in them is as naked as her body underneath the bubbles. He wants to do something, anything that he can, to take that pain away. He wishes he'd had answers to give her when she'd asked what had happened. He wishes he'd had reasons when she'd asked why he thought she was dead. He wishes he hadn't given up so quickly, that things were different.  
  
"Syd..." he starts, but he doesn't know what else to say. He reaches for her again, this time putting his hand on her knee. He means to be gentle, to offer her some sort of physical comfort. He just wants to remind himself that she's here and she's alive, but suddenly he's lost in the moment and all he can focus on is how soft her skin is. Their eyes lock; he finds himself slowly easing his hand down past her knee, into the water and down her thigh. His sleeve is getting soaked, but he can't find it in himself to care.   
  
When his fingers finally reach her center, her eyes snap shut and she gasps. She leans her head back onto the edge of the tub like she's done a million times before, and it's easy to forget where they are and how many things have changed.   
  
The room is quiet; the only sound is Sydney's harsh breathing echoing off the tiles. His fingers are skillful and sure-- he remembers exactly how she likes to be touched. This could be any other night after a mission, in her bathroom.   
  
It could be, but it's not, and he worries that he's not feeling guilty. There hasn't been a mission for either of them in quite some time. They're not in her bathroom with its candles and blue mosaic tiles lining the edge of the tub. Instead, they are in a safe house outside Tsimshatsui, the walls are undecorated, and he hasn't seen her in two years.  
  
She moves her hand through the water, and for a brief second, he's afraid she's going to push him away. But she grabs his wrist so tightly he's sure he'll have bruises. She holds him as if she thinks he might stop, rubbing her thumb against his forearm as if to assure herself that he's still there.  
  
Suddenly, she breaks the silence with a sharp cry of, "Vaughn!" and he feels her muscles contract around his fingers. Watching her face, the familiar site of her cheeks flushed with passion is enough to make his breath catch, and he leans in to kiss her.  
  
This time she *does* push him away, her eyes open again and glaring accusingly, their depths shadowed with hurt.   
  
"Don't."  
  
"But--" he starts to plead, but the look in her eyes tells him that this time she won't back down. "Why not?"   
  
She reaches for his hand, which is still resting on her upper thigh. She pulls it out of the water and holds it up between them, the gold band glinting in the pale light from the hallway as the bubbles slide down his arm. "That's why."  
  
He swallows hard and nods-- he knows she's right. He pushes himself upright, walking out the door, down the hall, and into the living room. He made a pledge to the woman he married, and when he goes back to honoring his commitment tomorrow he'll have to deal with the guilt and remorse that's tugging at him.  
  
But tonight he thinks of Sydney.   
  
He thinks of how once upon a time they would have laughed about his soggy sweater sleeve before he took his sweater off altogether. They'd have splashed each other playfully and the bubbles would have been fluffy and light and floated through the air. But now there's only pain, and regret, and bubbles that melt away into nothingness.   
  
END. 


End file.
